Washing up
Sitting on the curb outside the laundry mat, my arm around her like a Raymond Carver story. It was perfect. She was wearing a black skirt with cream lace at the bottom and her dark hair stumbling out of a small pony tail and her impossible eyes and the moon like a melon slice. One hand on my knee cupping a cigarette, the other gentle on the small of her back.
Anyone walking past turning to look would have surely concluded that this is a sad good life, a life where young people strange in the night entangle on curbs in front of laundry mats’ florescent lights flickering and clothes tumbling and lunatics wandering, a life where some might have the chance to share small tasks warmly, a life where some promises are undoubtedly kept.
This moment will surely end up in song at some point…